Above
by Elluxion
Summary: “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered in his ear, knowing he would never hear her. [HD]


**Above   
Chapter One: Invulnerable   
Written by Elluxion**

A songfic set to Evanescence's _My Last Breath_. 

This one is for **Gayathiri**, one of the best writers around. And G3? Don't give me that _I've got the soggy one_ look. =P 

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**Title: **Above 

**Written by: **Elluxion 

**Date: ** 17 September '03 

**Genre: ** Drama/Angst 

**Shippings: ** Hermione/Draco 

**Summary: ** She was involved in a gory battle that left one of her wrists snapped right back to meet the arm behind. Draco had done that, of course, flinging her against a tree with a Levitation Charm she should have seen coming, and she'd stupidly put out a hand to break her fall. But he'd healed it for her, too, tenderly. He'd been tender the whole night, gentle, taking it slow. 

**Notes: ** I sat down, turned on the puter and wrote this in 40 minutes flat and uploaded it immediately. I'm still pretty surprised by the impulsiveness of what I did. Oh wow. There is a continuation to this, BTW -- it isn't a one-shot. =) 

Onwards! Onegai, review! 

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_Hold on to me love_

Sleeping with him was the equivalent of walking into death's jaws and giving its tongue a yank: you'd be lucky to get out alive. She thought it fortunate that she could still walk out of his room without the help of crutches. Perversely she felt the safest, most protected while nestled in his arms: her head on his well-muscled chest, listening to his heart thrum in a different rhythm to her own—warm, invulnerable, sheltered. She surrendered to him in a way she never would even have considered if she had been on a battlefield. She didn't understand it, but she didn't claim to. She never would. 

_You know I can't stay long_

Hermione raised her head. This was probably the worst room they'd been in yet—a tiny, claustrophobic, closeted nook on the second level of some tavern with a vile name. The passageway had been so cramped Draco had to sidle sideways through it, but that hadn't mattered then because they were both still elated over having seen each other after two months. It had been far too long. 

The room was just about big enough to fit a double bed and one washstand. The walls, paint peeling, were a maze of cracks, and some of them were gaping enough so that she occasionally glimpsed the nose of a curious rat, or heard, perhaps, the scuttle of cockroach feet. The mirror that hung over a hair-choked basin—it wouldn't have been so bad if the hair hadn't been a pasty, decaying shade of green—was yellowed and possessed a spectacular slash right down the middle. 

She got off the bed, careful not to disturb him, and made her way to the washstand. Her grimy reflection taunted her, the planes of her face distorted by the crackline, her once-glorious dark hair limp with days of neglect, her eyes tight and bloodshot, encircled by lines of exhaustion. 

He hadn't looked much better; there had been a bloody gash down one poised cheekbone that she doubted would ever completely disappear. She'd healed it, but a luminous pale line remained. Yet his gray eyes were sharp as ever, bright with awareness that told of an always-working mind even though they'd escaped here, where no one would ask questions if you had gold, straight from the battlefield. 

Hermione squinted at the mirror and told herself that the dazedness of her eyes was just an aftereffect of days of hardly any sleep. She'd spent sunrises and sunsets crouched motionless in a ditch, waiting with her nerves fraying for the ambush she was to help spring upon Draco and whoever was with him. 

And after those tense, silent days of waiting, waiting, always waiting, she was involved in a gory battle that left one of her wrists snapped right back to meet the arm behind. Draco had done that, of course, flinging her against a tree with a Levitation Charm she should have seen coming, and she'd stupidly put out a hand to break her fall. But he'd healed it for her, too, tenderly. He'd been tender the whole night, gentle, taking it slow. 

Hermione blinked away the sudden tears in her eyes, surprised at herself. She was doing what she had to. She knew it was right. So wasn't she above crying? 

_All I wanted to say was I love you and I'm not afraid_

Outside the lone window, the pane stuck half-open, a Muggle car roared past, leaving behind fumes that hung heavy and torpid in the air. Hermione quietly pulled on her robes without her undergarments, and they felt silken and comforting on her bare skin. She buttoned them up and fastened the sash about her waist. And her wand, of course, she held in hand. Unexpected attacks were aplenty, as she'd found out the hard way. 

_I won't turn back. I won't turn back. I swear I won't say goodbye to him._

She hugged herself tightly. It was cold, these few moments before dawn. 

_I won't turn back._

Her hand was already on the handle of the door. 

_Turn the knob, Hermione. Turn the knob and shut it behind you._

She turned it and the door gave. 

_Shut it all behind you._

She was on the threshold, her hands rubbing her arms vigorously. Goosebumps rose on her skin; she could feel them. 

_Won't. Won't turn back._

She couldn't not turn back. She stepped around swiftly and walked to the bed where he lay, sleeping fitfully, silver hair splayed around him childishly, at peace only in slumber. She laid a light kiss on his forehead and touched his arm briefly, taking in Draco's face, so calm, so innocent. 

"Goodbye, my love," she whispered in his ear, knowing he would never hear her. 

Then, finally, she turned and walked out, shutting the door softly behind her. Somehow it didn't seem so cold any longer. 

_Can you hear me?_

Hermione set a brisk pace, walking with her head down and her hair falling over her face, feeling strangely detached from the world. A beggar dressed in rags so tattered he might as well have not worn them clutched at the hem of her robes, his face blotched with a skin-eating disease, a tragic, prostrate figure that kissed the silk material once, and then looked up hopefully at Hermione, a Hermione who was above it all, above compassion, above pity, above emotions that chain humans to life. She looked at him dispassionately, freed herself easily with a well-placed kick and moved on, never breaking her stride. 

_Can you feel me in your arms?_

The moment she reached the park, safely out of Muggle eyes, she Apparated away with a pop that mingled with a screech owl's cry. 

When she reached her destination, she drew a knife from her pocket and didn't flinch when it bit deep into her wrist. 


End file.
